


Chief Complaint

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Series: Rosie Watson Parentlock Fluff [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Sherlock loves watching House, bad day, doctor problems, grab the popcorn, hudders' tea fixes everything, utterly fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12330627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: John Watson is having a shit day. Just...utter shit. After everything that's gone wrong, what could possibly cheer him up?





	Chief Complaint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [janto321 (FaceofMer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/gifts).



> Dedicated to janto321, who has been having some crap days recently. I hope this hits the spot and makes you smile, dear.
> 
> Months ago, I promised to write a fic where John and Sherlock watch House together, so this takes care of that, too.
> 
> Oh, everything that happens to John in the office has happened to me. With the exception of the boob-flashing. In my case, it was a penis...
> 
> Rated T for language, I guess.

John Watson slid into the backseat of the cab (a luxury he _never_ allowed himself), closed the door, and cursed as he realized the strap of his bag was caught in the closure.

 _Fuck it all to goddamned hell_.

He opened the door, yanked the bag further into the car, and closed it again with a slam.

“Oi! You wanna stick to wrecking your own car, mate?” The driver was indignant and had turned to point his severe frown and serious eyes straight at John.

He cringed and looked at the floor.

“Sorry. Just a shit day. Can you take me to 221 Baker Street? I’ll tip extra if I don’t have to make small talk.”

Seemingly appeased, the cabbie turned back to the wheel, put the car in gear, and eased out into the London night. The drive was uneventful, which was much more than John could say for his day.

It had begun with rancid milk in his tea, a soiled shirt and trousers as he hurried to pour a replacement cup of tea into his travel mug, and plain burnt toast since there was no jam left in the jar.

He tripped over Rosie’s blocks on the way to the door, slamming his shin into the coffee table. His ten minute walk to the tube was accompanied by a throbbing leg and a nagging limp.

And the fun didn’t stop with his arrival at the office. A scheduling issue meant that Dr. Watson’s schedule was double-booked at least once per hour, which left him to see thirty patients instead of his usual twenty.

Each patient was more tedious than the last, from requests for antibiotics for viral stomach bugs and colds that had started only the night before to parents refusing to vaccinate their children. 

The afternoon brought his once-weekly _emergency_ visit from Miss Clifton, a buxom blonde just about his age who liked to bring him gifts. (Once it had been chocolate covered strawberries and an invitation back to her place, leading John to outlaw any patient thank you’s and request that she see another doctor in the office...which, of course, did _not_ happen.)

Today, she wore a low-cut blouse and leaned far forward in the patient chair, which she had moved to sit alongside his own. John barely kept himself from laughing as she soliloquized about a “nonexistent sex drive." He ended the visit with a prescription for a quick blood test for hormone levels...and a referral to behavioral medicine.

But the stinger, his last patient of the day, had been a man ten years his junior. He entered the consult room with a blank face and scarcely met John’s eyes as he spoke in a monotone about the recent events in his life. 

His wife had died suddenly, leaving him with severe grief and a six-month-old daughter. The young man had made this appointment at the urging of his sister, who had noticed that he was drinking far more than previously.

John swallowed around the lump in his throat. The story was gut wrenching and familiar, but it wasn’t as if he had any advice for healthy coping. He could hear it now, the John Watson Guide to Coping with the Tragic Death of Your Wife:

“You see, mate, what I did was alienate my best friend while I passed off my daughter to any friend or neighbor who would take her. Every night, I drank myself into a dreamless sleep. Then, the first time I saw my friend again, I beat the shit out of him. And _then_ I got tranquilized by my therapist, kidnapped to a prison island, and underwent psychological torture and near-drowning that did wonders from my military-based PTSD…”

John pushed aside his own issues and focused totally on the patient, giving him space to talk through his experiences and his feelings. They went over healthy coping strategies, and John recommended some support programs for alcohol abuse, prescribed an antidepressant medication, and made an appointment to see the young man in two weeks. The patient left the room with the same blank expression as before, and John could only hope that his interventions would make a difference.

And that left him here, watching rain-damp streets go by as his head lolled on the headrest of a black cab. The driver pulled to the kerb and John reached to his back pocket...and couldn’t find his wallet. _Bollocks_.

“Shit. I’ve left my wallet at the office.”

The cabbie looked at him with murder in his eyes and moved his hand toward the dispatch radio, ready to report a freeloader and demand swift, cruel justice. John waved his hand through the gap between the plastic divider panes, attempting to calm him.

“I’ll leave my bag here, jot inside, and get some cash. Okay?”

The cabbie paused, narrowed his eyes, and nodded, the motion barely perceptible. John breathed out in a whoosh and, leaving his bag on the seat, entered the building and knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

“John!” Mrs Hudson gathered him in a hug and kissed his cheek.

“It’s been a bugger of a day, Martha. I left my wallet on my desk and just took a cab home. Can I borrow thirty quid?”

The landlady patted his cheek and fluttered her hand in the air as she turned to her entryway table to retrieve some notes from her purse. She pressed it into his grasp, then kissed his other cheek, turned him by the shoulders, and pushed him back toward the door.

“Pay the man, Dr. Watson. Then come in for a nice cuppa.”

Five minutes later, John was sitting at Mrs. Hudson’s small kitchen table with a steaming teacup in front of him, the kind that always made his hands seem ridiculously huge. He tipped his pinky up and had to smile slightly at Martha’s giggle.

“Now, after you finish that tea, you hurry upstairs to check on Sherlock and Rosie. There was some shrieking and giggling about an hour ago, but they’ve been suspiciously quiet since.”

John tried not to let visions of Rosie prodding at cat eyeballs with a surgical probe dance through his head. Instead, he focused on the aroma and taste of a perfect cup of tea.

*****

After the warm beverage and a long hug, John was feeling fortified to face whatever awaited him upstairs. He mounted the steps with heavy feet. The flat was dark and quiet except for the murmuring and glow of the television.

He came to a halt in the doorway and squinted at the screen. He heard a belligerent man badgering his colleagues. It sounded like a Brit putting on an American accent. Was that...Hugh Laurie?

Yes, it was. The actor was walking with a cane and a profound limp, surrounded by a herd of disciples in white coats.

“Sherlock, are you letting our _three-year-old_ watch _House_?”

Two smiling faces turned to greet him.

“Daddy!” Rosie jumped off Sherlock’s lap and crossed to him in three jumps, circling his knees in a hug. Sherlock watched the reunion with contentment before he turned to the television and muted it.

John shook his head as he hoisted Rosie onto a hip and walked to the couch. He sat heavily down on the open cushion, and she crawled into the tiny space between the two men, wiggling until there was room for her. Sherlock swung his arm over John’s shoulders and motioned to the glowing, silent box.

“He’s a _genius_ , John! _Top notch_ observation skills, _highly_ developed deductive reasoning abilities, healthy disregard for the asinine opinions of authority figures…”

He gestured grandly as Dr. House rolled his eyes and spoke rapidly to a colleague, no doubt a speech just as full of belittling epithets as medical advice. “And he understands the pain of dealing with _normal people_. I feel a genuine kinship with the good doctor.”

John sighed, watching the action as he considered where to start.

“Sherlock, from the very little I’ve seen, this show is utter pulp! It’s ridiculously over-dramatized. The illness depicted are incredibly rare and the presentations shown even more so. And I can’t imagine ordering the type of testing he and his team seem to have at their disposal for _every patient_...the NHS wouldn’t tolerate it!”

He finally looked away from the screen, but paused in the midst of shaking his head as he noticed Rosie’s rapt grin. She was gazing up at Sherlock, who watched the TV with stars in his eyes. His excitement was contagious. She was clapping her hands and nearly bouncing in her seat.

Sherlock bent to place a kiss on her forehead and stopped on his way back upright, pressing his lips to John’s as well. “I never would have started watching if it wasn’t for Watson.”

John cocked his head, confused, and Rosie squealed and pointed at the screen.

“Doctor! Like Daddy!!”

John decided to _Let It Go_ , just like that horrible song from Rosie’s favorite movie. He toed off his shoes, placed his sock feet on the coffee table, and lifted a still-warm bowl of popcorn off onto his lap.

The room was still a mess, Rosie’s toys and Sherlock’s papers strewn everywhere. He had to be at the office early tomorrow to finish the charting he just couldn’t face this evening, and his shin twinged as he crossed his ankles.

But he was here, in his cozy flat, cuddling next to the two people he loved most. And if Sherlock Holmes could find it in himself to sit through and even _enjoy_ James Bond...well, John Watson, MD, could give Dr. House another try.


End file.
